one's experience of sexuality

i believe there must be some thing we share an experience of. there is a feeling when you go with somebody,

you go somewhere. my imagination has taken me to such extraordinary places-- especially when left alone, especially when bored-- so much so that i wish to confirm to another that what i see is in fact a truth, if not the truth.

my favorite passage (real ones know) talks about this:

There are the lover and beloved, but these two come from different countries. Often the beloved is only a stimulus for all the stored-up love which has lain quiet in the lover for a long time hitherto. And somehow ervery lover knows this.

--it's laughing ironically. this has been my metaphysics since i was 19. note that. okay, on we go...

He feels in his soul that his love is a solitary thing. He comes to know a new, strange loneliness and it is this knowledge which makes him suffer. So there is only one thing for the lover to do. He must house his love within himself as best he can, he must create for himself a whole new inward world-- a word intense and strange, complete in himself. Let it be added here that this lover about whom we speak need not necessarily be a young man saving for a wedding ring-- this lover can be man, woman, child, or indeed any human creature on this earth.

--perhaps one of the strongest pieces of persuasive writing out there.

Now, the beloved can also be of any description. The most outlandish people can be the stimulus for love. A man may be a doddering great-grandfather and still love only a strange girl he saw in the streets of Cheehaw one afternoon two decades past. The preacher may love a fallen woman. The beloved may be treacherous, greasy-headed, and given to evil habits. Yes, and the love may see this as clearly as anyone else-- but that doese not affect the evolution tof his love one whit.

--you crying yet? reading this back, it's so queer. from the right angle, is also rich with lust. try copying it over yourself.

A most mediocre person can be the object of a love which is wild, extravagant, and beautiful as the poison lilies of the swamp. A good man may be the stimulus for a love both violent and debased, or a jabbering madman may bring about in the soul of someone a tender and simple idyll.

--this person has a name. 13 letters :) he plays the bass for a grungy indie rock band based in brooklyn, formed in allston. listening to their music right now feels like walking in a meadow of flowers. a world of color and entire swelling of the heart. welcome; we are at home. your needs are taken care of and you are in some sort of l---? you piece together parts of a life lived, or almost. you exist on a plane of met desire and nothing bad. you remember what it is that you love, who you love. there is a glowing person, who's always done everything right, right in front of you. reach out and feel sunrays, moving up and down your arms. you're about to go on stage-- you're on stage-- and the lights are so bright. no one would ever need to be alone again.

a near-orgasmic experience, headphones suction-cupped, that reminds me of a tweet from the other day about why we "frown" at nasty music. part of it must have to be about music. part of love, that is, must involve music, i imagine. who's to disagree with me, now? (it's not like i'm risking anything narrowing my circle even smaller.)

there is a unique sexuality i associate with liking someone in a band. it existed in me pre-Almost Famous. the impulse is found in Fleabag, if not the plot. that is to say, i can't help it, and i'm not necessarily proud of myself. but then again, i am, when it's real. i find that it is real by noticing what is not-- most musicians are not very hot at all. most music doesn't do it for me. so stands out is the bit that avoids these otherwise mundane expectations, rewriting the category for me into a whole universe.

you have to believe that your people exist, because they do. fantasize-- I always encourage it-- because what you may feel so viscerally is out there; if it were not, you would not be able to feel it! Pursue that feeling, and stretch it. use it to make art, or a private playground, whatever. i don't think we're often encouraged to play. people say it is bad to engage in make-believe. they say we're too old now and we have to grow up. but, the truth is, if you've got yourself set up enough-- you take care of what needs to be done-- you can play, a lot. you can dance basically whenever you want, and you can think all sorts of things. if you think them, and no one's there to yell at you, they can all be true. like dreams. for as long as they are.

i've made a habit of this. traveling to a world like kate's.

Therefore, the value and quality of any love is determined solely by the lover himself. It is for this reason that most of us would rather love than be loved. Almost everyone wants to be the lover. And the curt truth is that, in a deep secret way, the state of being beloved is intolerable to many. The beloved fears and hates the lover, and with the best of reasons. For the lover is forever trying to strip bare his beloved. The lover craves any possible relation with the beloved, even if this experience can cause him only pain.

--that's the end of the passage which i wrote into my notebook long ago. 5 years now, to be precise. five years with this understanding of the world; i had just applied to northeastern. so, ya. i'm not sure how someone would feel reading this. it's either totally true for you and your choking and sobbing, in which case, yeah sorry i'm with you, or it doesn't land. i shrug. i'm here for the folks who understand exactly what's going on.

there's other ways you could put it, of course. you could start a conversation about attachment styles, ego, personality-- somewhere else. this right here is a rosetta stone, a foundational text. i know this because it hurts. and it's been hurting.

i'm glad that i can reference some gospel; i haven't always had much of that. these stained-glass depictions take on newer, peculiar hues. a sober acknowledgement that you tend to gnaw. that you will always been an animal. it's hard to cope with being scary, that's honest. it breaks your heart, to be so dopey and clumsy and be surrounded by pretty, fragile things. i'm bigfoot in a china shop. and the china is someone i love, every time.

correction: they do not break; they do go away. or sometimes, i stay. i have been loved, surprise!... let's discuss.

i have it all imagined, at this point exactly, what love will be. we cohabitate a living room. my eyes practice being wide. (i think there's something to be said about partnership allowing you to be your kid self.) i tell more stupid jokes than i ever have. i watch someone who doesn't mind being admired at, for now. they will kiss me on occasion, and i'm giddy at the lead-up to the next one. mostly it's the staring, though. i yearn for eye contact that communicates "i like you" and "i'm so excited you like me" in the same glance. i picture someone that is tired, that is heavy, that is soft. i picture myself melting away, as i put on glazey contacts. love a cushion to sink into and not move from. the intense looks. "i want you" & "come get me." a subtle smile on my part. an eye roll and a pair.

i gotta go to bed. we'll keep at this soon-- i'm still shy.
goodnight lovers,

kate

<3

sun feb 23 11pm